


All you need is twinkling stars and ancient cities

by TooRational



Category: Stargate Atlantis, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Space, Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, Daryl Dixon Needs a Hug, Daryl Dixon is a Softie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Jesus (Walking Dead) Needs a Hug, Little Shit Jesus (Walking Dead), M/M, Mindfuck, POV Daryl Dixon, Podfic Welcome, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Strangers to Lovers, Trauma, Wraith (Stargate)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 00:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20200945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Daryl Dixon of all people turns out to have the Ancient gene.Go figure.Or: The unlikely tale of a redneck from Earth and a Runner from the Pegasus Galaxy, and how they fell in love.





	All you need is twinkling stars and ancient cities

**Author's Note:**

> This fic ate my brain, my darling folk, you have _no idea_.
> 
> I started writing it for the Desus Spring Sci-Fi Challenge way back in April 2018, and I just finished it. Yes, it's a long fucking time, I agree! I half-doubt there's even an audience to this, with both fandoms being, well, almost dead, but it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down.
> 
> For anyone who clicks and reads: I salute you, brave traveler. Come and poke me at [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/), we might have stuff in common.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

Daryl's uniform is trying to choke him out.

Not only that, it's also doing a better job of it than half the _people_ that tried doing it so far, and considering the amount of bar fights Daryl was in, mostly because of Merle and his dumbass self, that's downright impressive.

Daryl tugs at his collar, cursing whoever invented this tight, clingy, itchy, _stupid_ thing, _and_ all of their potential offspring, _and_ their second cousins.

Maybe even third, depending on how the day goes.

They won't even let him cut the sleeves off for missions on the hotter worlds. He tried asking, and then just doing it himself more times than he can count, and it only results in another lecture from Dr. Weir along with a brand new shirt with sleeves ~magically replacing the one he 'defaced'.

Daryl would like to deface someone's _face_ alright.

What hole do they even dig these damn things up from, anyway?

"C'mon, Daryl," Rick says, and Daryl stops tugging and follows Rick out of the puddlejumper with a sigh.

They leave the jumper parked in a small clearing near the Stargate – cloaked, of course, because trouble follows them like a flea-infested dog since the moment they landed in this fucking galaxy – and set off to collect the samples.

It's usually Colonel Sheppard's team that's making first contact and exploring the new worlds, but they're busy with something or other this time, and the Ancient database indicated that this planet has a huge variety of plant- and wildlife. Half the geeks went starry-eyed when thinking about all the discoveries they could make, the applications the plants _alone_ could have.

And so Rick's team was dispatched, Daryl included because he's the best they have for tracking and identifying all the items on the sizeable list the brainiacs put together, and here they are.

"Tara, you cover Daryl while he collects the samples. Sasha, you're with me. We're gonna check out the surrounding area," Rick says, and Daryl groans in his head.

Tara is _a talker_. As in, one of those people that just... _talk_ at other people? With no provocation, or any sort of reason, really?

Daryl wonders what sort of idyllic childhood she's had, that she's like this now. All... social and shit.

Sure enough, random observations, unwanted thoughts, and incessant complaints soon fill the air, topics ranging from the heat, to the weirdness of the galaxy, to the lack of candy selection in the mess hall, and on, and on, and _on_. Daryl would tell her to shut up, but weirdly, the babbling somehow keeps him focused. As long as she doesn't expect a reply, he's good. The work is slow and tiresome so it's nice to have something as background noise.

It also keeps him from imagining creepy, inhuman, bug-like eyes on the back of his head, waiting for the right opportunity to strike and eviscerate him. And _eat_ him.

Daryl sighs and rubs his forehead.

This always happens when they're visiting other worlds; the paranoia that's seeped all the way into his bones takes over. It'd ordinarily be a problem, something they'd send him to the head shrink for, but in this environment? It's a damn self-preservation skill.

Fucking galaxy trying to kill them all, _all_ the fucking time.

This particular planet, for instance, named 'a random mix of letters and numbers Daryl didn't bother to memorize', is damn hot, with the level of radiation so high, it's very _unwise_ to leave any amount of skin exposed for longer periods of time.

Basically, even the _sun_ is trying to kill them.

Typical.

~*~

Time flies when you're bitching in your head, and they reconvene for lunch and a short break after about three hours.

They're all sweaty and red-faced, with about three more hours until the hottest part of the day begins. They have to be long gone before then, though, or they'll get crispier than a bucket of KFC.

Daryl makes a face at his MRE.

God, he could really go for some KFC right now. Too bad they don't deliver to the Pegasus Galaxy.

They eat quickly and efficiently, and go back to their duties, trying to finish up as soon as possible.

Not fifteen minutes later, a faint shout reaches Daryl.

"...get them! Daryl, behind you, _get them_!"

It's Rick, yelling from half a mile away, and Daryl looks around wildly until he spots a figure not too far off, reaching for one of their backpacks.

Daryl drops the samples and lunges, cutting the person off before they can escape.

Or rather, he _tries _to, but they're too fucking wily – every move Daryl makes is met with swerving, bolting away, slipping sideways or doubling back. It's the equivalent of holding on to a live fish, Daryl fucking _can't catch them_.

Sheer dumb luck smiles at Daryl and he grabs the person's backpack, one of their own, it seems – and just how long were they here, with Daryl none the wiser? – and yanks, _hard_.

The satisfaction of catching the asshole is short-lived, though, because Daryl is on the floor before you can say 'oh _shit_', stomach aching from a kick, back smarting from the impact with the ground.

He catches a glimpse of light-colored eyes above a bandana, the only part of the person visible under a beanie and a heavy coat that looks way too hot for the weather, and then they're off again.

Daryl scrambles up and runs after them, cursing his luck and this fucking sun, when he finally sees Rick coming directly at them (what the hell took him so long, did he stop for a fucking _scenic tour _of this damn place?), Sasha hot in pursuit.

Asshole – Daryl's decided to call the person Asshole, it seems fitting – suddenly swings around and somehow winds up behind Daryl in a split second, and—

There's a knife at Daryl's throat.

Daryl stills, all muscles locked.

He doesn't much want to die today.

Who the fuck _is_ this person? Where the fuck did they come from? Do they _live_ on this godforsaken planet?

_Why_? What could possibly be worth living _here_?

"Let him go!" Rick pants out as he skids to a halt.

Asshole backs off and pulls Daryl with him, the knife digging in a tiny bit. It doesn't break the skin, though. Daryl can't tell if it's luck, or if Asshole is just that skilled with a blade.

He prays for the first, because the second doesn't mean good things for him.

In the meantime, Rick has lifted his hands in a hurry.

"Wait, just— What's your name?"

Daryl can't see the person behind him, but he can feel the heat radiating from the sticky leather, the rapid breathing near his ear.

The hand holding the blade is rock steady on his chest, arm like a vice around Daryl's upper body.

"Paul,"_ he_, probably, replies in a raspy half-whisper. It sounds like he hasn't talked in a long while.

"Okay, Paul, let's just calm down for a second," Rick says.

Oh, nice going, Rick. Like _that's_ gonna work. If he doesn't pull out something more convincing than 'calm down', Daryl is leaving half his blood on this planet.

Maybe not only that, either.

"Go," Asshole!Paul growls.

"Go where?"

Daryl swallows a curse.

What the fuck difference does it make_ where_?! Which school of negotiation did Rick go to, one for the utterly_ incompetent_?

"_Leave._"

"Okay, okay, we will. You just gotta let my friend go."

Asshole!Paul hesitates.

Daryl can almost _feel_ his brain working feverishly, calculating the odds and weighing his options.

He holds still and prays the man doesn't choose the 'cut Daryl up and escape while his team is distracted plugging up the holes' route, 'cause that would suck balls.

"Can't. Dangerous."

"What? Why?"

There's no reply, just a tense body behind Daryl taking another half-step backwards and pulling Daryl along with him.

Rick tries another track. "Why are you here, on this planet? Do you need help? We can help you."

"Can't. You'll die."

The desperation in his voice is _really_ fucking scaring Daryl. So far Daryl's in one piece, and the rest of his team is fine, but desperate men do desperate things.

"Is that a threat?" Rick says sharply, then immediately winces at his own temper.

"Just go. It's not safe. They're coming."

Rick pauses a beat and squints, like something just clicked into place in his mind.

It clicks in Daryl's mind, too.

Ronon Dex.

"You're a Runner, aren't you?" Rick says, and all the muscles at Daryl's back tense immediately, all but confirming it.

Daryl's heard about Runners, they all did. Hell, there's one living on Atlantis itself, and Ronon is anything but inconspicuous, with two feet of dreadlocks and almost six and a half feet of pure muscle that make Daryl feel small.

He's also heard what Ronon's been through during the seven years he survived on the run from the Wraith, stuck with a tracker and hunted for sport and amusement of the goth-wannabe life-force-sucking space vampires, and it's not pretty.

Despite everything that happened, the wild goose chase and thorough ass-kicking he just got from Asshole!Paul, he finds himself feeling a tiny bit sorry for him.

"We got a really good doctor who can help you," Rick says, bless his optimistic heart. "She's gonna take out that tracker so you don't have to run anymore."

"You're lying," the man spits out in an angry growl, like the mere suggestion of hope hurts.

"I'm not, I swear to you."

There is no way this guy is gonna let himself be talked down. Hell, Daryl himself would probably cut and run in his place. They're a bunch of strangers offering him something Asshole!Paul has to be pretty sure doesn't exist: removing the tracker and escaping the Wraiths' pale, gummy, sadistic hands forever.

"Let us help you," Rick says in his best earnest voice. "You can even hold on to Daryl, if you want, and we'll bring the doc to you."

He can _what_?

What the_ actual fuck_, Rick?

Daryl shoots Rick a murderous glare, but the man's ignoring him.

A few tense moments go by, slow as molasses, and then, to Daryl's shock, the heat disappears from his back.

He twists and backs away enough to put his gun up, waiting for a mere twitch to shoot Asshole!Paul, but he's still.

The slump of the man's shoulders is defeated, eyes downcast, hands hanging limply at his sides.

He's tired, Daryl realizes. Exhausted, probably, from the running, looking back, never sleeping twice in the same place, avoiding settlements and people so they wouldn't get punished for helping him.

He must be skilled, and smart, to have survived long enough to _be_ exhausted.

Daryl pauses, locking eyes with the man forcing himself to surrender even though he's as skittish and mistrustful as a wild animal.

It's almost admirable.

Daryl shoots him with a stunner point blank.

Better safe than sorry.

The thump of the body hitting the ground is _incredibly_ satisfying.

Rick looks at him incredulously, hands spread in a 'what the hell,_ why_?' gesture.

"_What_?"

Daryl was a _tiny_ bit sorry for the man, but Asshole still held a knife to his throat.

"You're carrying him to the jumper," Rick says, and Daryl groans.

"Fuck you, man."

"Yeah, yeah," Rick replies and walks away.

~*~

Since the mission is over sooner than expected, they fly back with the runner safely tied up in the back.

They radio in as soon as they dial Atlantis, the Stargate thankfully working just fine, and Glenn confirms that doc Denise is waiting for them in the sickbay.

Daryl has to fly the puddlejumper, because Rick is a sadist who doesn't think Daryl's suffered enough while dragging Asshole!Paul's deceptively heavy ass back to the jumper, and knows how much Daryl hates flying and the Ancient tech in general.

Which is ironic, since the damn gene manifested in Daryl strong enough for him to be second only to Colonel Sheppard. Every single part of the damn city, every ancient tech they find, it all lights up like it's fucking Christmas as soon as Daryl approaches.

Fate, as always, loves to fuck him over as much as it can.

Flying is stupid.

The Ancients were stupid.

The damn jumpers are _stupid_ – they're basically stubby little hot dogs without a bun, cut at an angle to be cool and 'edgy'. Those Ancient designers were tripping worse than Merle on one of his meth-fueled benders when they invented them. No, the cloaking and the underwater and the shield thing don't make up for it; it's completely wiped out by the responding-to-your-thoughts-for-everything-but-a-sandwich thing. That's fucking _creepy_. Daryl doesn't need anyone else in his head, his own thoughts are more than enough.

Sheppard can keep all of them damn things, as far as Daryl's concerned.

Daryl lands in the entryway just long enough for the team to disembark and the medics to take the Runner, then takes off again to park the puddlejumper in the bay.

Leaving it is a relief, as always. No matter how many times he uses it, no matter how eagerly the jumper responds to him, Daryl can't shake the creepy crawlies he gets when he's in one of those. Or around any offensive and/or weapon-type Ancient tech. Like he's one step away from killing everyone with a thought, just nukeing the place into dust accidentally, or sinking it into the ocean again.

The amount of damage he could potentially do with a _stray thought_ freaks him the fuck out.

All that aside, Daryl's has to admit that the city is the coolest thing he's ever seen. Even after living in it for a year, and even with the countless ways it could kill them (mostly because the brain squad keeps poking at shit that should be damn well left alone), it also saved their asses more times than Daryl can count. The floating-on-water thing is a little unsettling, okay, but it's still very cool.

When he gets restless, just taking a walk on one of Atlantis' many piers and wrap-around balconies calms Daryl down, the architecture completely alien but somehow vaguely familiar, the beauty of its gleaming, pointy towers undeniable.

The fancy elevator/transporter thing is also very useful when you don't want to trek half a day between your quarters, the mess hall, the conference rooms, or when you're half-dead from a mission, like now.

Daryl has mostly gotten over thinking it will leave him stranded in some remote part of the city and never let him find a way back.

Mostly.

He reaches his quarters, takes a quick shower to wash away the dust and the heat of the day, and does a quick check.

Not a mark on him, besides a bit of ache in his back and stomach. His neck looks fine.

Impressive.

He collapses into bed, and starts dozing off almost immediately.

The feeling of safety and protection he feels here, in his quarters on Atlantis, is still something he's getting used to. He has no idea how it happened, but somehow, this is the first place that feels truly_ his_.

Apparently, all Daryl had to do to find something resembling a home is to get bartered away by Merle and fly half-way across the universe to another galaxy.

Who knew?

~*~

He's waiting for Rick to show up for their usual late lunch when he notices Assho– _Paul_ on the other end of the mess hall, sitting alone at one of the tables. There are two guards standing right behind him, one eye on the surroundings and one eye on him.

He looks... different.

His hair is clean and combed, his beard neatly trimmed. He's got cargo pants and a white shirt on, a little big on him. Someone either overestimated his size, or didn't give a shit if the clothes fit the prisoner right.

Daryl's money is on the latter. He's met those dicks at Supplies, and Gregory and his crew live to make everyone's lives as difficult as possible.

He almost looks _normal_. Sure, he could stand to gain a few pounds, but Daryl knows the man's muscles are carved like stone, and with about as much fat on them. Doc Denise kept him in the infirmary for a few days to treat him for malnourishment and dehydration, and there are still dark circles under his eyes, but he moves easily despite that. Either he's uninjured, or he's covering it really well. Either options brings with it its own questions and dangers.

Paul lifts the fork to take a bite of his mystery meal – most meals here are mystery meals, though the cafeteria occasionally does pull a miracle or two; their mashed potatoes and sausages are really good – and Daryl catches a glimpse of something that shouldn't be there.

Apparently, the Runner has knives strapped to his forearms.

Daryl tenses.

If he has _that_, then there's probably...

He looks down, waits for the Runner to shift his legs, and—

There.

At least one more knife in his boot, too.

And where there's three, there's most likely more.

Daryl is grudgingly impressed.

The guards can't possibly know he's armed, considering they tense up if he so much as looks at the cutlery too long.

Useless, the whole damn lot of them.

Daryl stares at Paul, waiting for something, _anything_, to happen. The man is probably capable of disappearing in front of their very eyes, stealing half their food supplies in the process. Daryl wouldn't put anything past him. He's sneaky, and quick, and he's just lulling everyone into a false sense of safety.

Everyone else can be as blind as they want to, but Daryl won't let himself be fooled again.

Unaware of the scrutiny – or _is he_? No, okay, wow, Daryl might have to tone down the paranoia – Paul continues to eat his food, slowly and meticulously, like he's savoring each bite.

Or maybe like he's trying not to upset his stomach.

It would make sense, if he'd been avoiding populated areas for almost a year. Can't get much food if you only visit hostile worlds and have nothing to trade with.

Daryl shifts on his seat, the sudden pang of sympathy making him uncomfortable.

It's not like he's had a charmed life himself, with his deadbeat old man and an older brother that basically sold him to the army for a reduced sentence, but being hunted like an animal by Wraith for years, with no place to rest and no human contact? He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy. And that's saying something.

"The new guy kinda looks like Jesus," comes a chuckle from a nearby table, and Daryl barely avoids choking on his juice.

What _is it_ with this place, is Daryl the only one with eyes? Will everyone fall for the innocent saint crap this asshole seems to radiate from his pores?

_Unbelievable_.

Daryl throws a glare in Paul's direction but the man just eats his food and keeps his head down.

The hunch of his shoulders leaves a bad taste in Daryl's mouth.

He downs the rest of his juice and leaves. Rick can eat on his own for once.

Daryl just lost his appetite.

~*~

Training day with Ronon and Teyla is one of Daryl's weekly not-to-be-missed favorites.

He usually gets his fix by watching the surveillance tapes with Glenn in his quarters, complete with cackled comments and throwing popcorn at the screen. What's not to like about soldiers with an attitude problem getting their asses handed to them by a 'savage' and a tiny woman? It's just the pick-up Daryl needs after a rough week.

This week, though, _Paul_ is the one Ronon and Teyla are sparring with, the rest of the soldiers waiting more or less patiently at the edges of the mat.

It makes for a very different show, but no less fascinating.

For one, it's clear they're evenly matched, Paul never making the mistake of underestimating Ronon's speed or intelligence like some people do. For another, Paul is using mostly defensive maneuvers, striking back and making contact only when he's in imminent danger. Ronon's a good sport about it, and about the fact that he can't quite get his hands on the slippery little runner, and they stop several times to show the soldiers some of the ways Paul used to evade him.

But Ronon's patience is not endless, and he soon forces Paul in a clear confrontation.

"Whoa," says Glenn as a flurry of kicks and punches almost too fast to see follows, Paul narrowly escaping Ronon's attacks again and again while aiming for the man's weak spots. Daryl's almost sorry they're not there to see it in person, it's so impressive.

It's only Ronon's temper getting the better of him that helps Paul win three of the five matches, that and the fact that Paul stays unnaturally calm when under attack – no panic, no hesitation, pure calculation and control.

Ronon is not very torn up about it, though, patting Paul on the back and saying something about finally finding someone else to challenge him.

Teyla's smirk at that is small but noticeable; and with good reason, because _she_ still beats both Paul's and Ronon's ass in most of their matches. The woman is a menace with her sticks, as graceful and deadly as a lioness. Paul has quickly figured out that he only has a chance if he manages to take the sticks away from her, which makes the odds a more even 50-50.

Daryl thinks Teyla might even be scarier than Michonne from the chemistry department, the woman Rick has an embarrassing crush on. He heard she has a _katana_ in her quarters, _and_ that she knows how to use it. No one – not the geeks, nor the soldiers – dare to even _look_ at her wrong, let alone hit on her.

No wonder Rick is smitten. He always had a bit of a death wish.

When Teyla is satisfied she beat her obvious superiority into both Paul and Ronon, she signals the men watching the three the fighters in awe, and they form a line for their regular beat-up-marines-and-other-military-personnel-under-the-guise-of-training routine. Daryl would feel sorry for enjoying their pain, but the nutcases actually _love_ these sessions, practicing all the moves and holds for days after and bragging when they pull it off during missions, or while sparring with others, so it's cool.

Glenn, the brilliant man he is, pops a new bag of popcorn.

Showtime.

~*~

Daryl usually tolerates a handful of people during meals, less when he's off duty.

There's Rick and his team (Tara and Sasha, with Daryl and Siddiq switching on missions as needed), Glenn the tech guy, Denise the doc, Maggie from the biology section, Michonne from the bomb-making squad aka. chemistry section. They're cool people, don't care about where you come from, judge you on who you are and how you treat people.

He stays away from both the soldiers and the scientists otherwise. He's an outsider who ended up on Atlantis just because of a genetic lottery; a random carrier of the ancient gene. He's got no skills besides his tracking and knowledge of plants, no education besides barely scraping through high school, so the geeks look down on him, as do the soldiers. It's not Daryl's idea of a fun time, hanging with those kinds of people.

He's good with his small circle, the quiet routine he developed. Honestly, it's much better than he imagined his life going as a kid, an endless line of getting drunk in dive bars and getting Merle out of fights, some hunting, mostly being a waste of space. At least here he's useful, makes a difference, helps the geeks with their research and Rick with his exploring. He's got a purpose.

Though he still misses his crossbow, and his bike. The brass at the SGC wouldn't let him bring either with him, even when it's obvious non-standard weapons and transportation would be useful out here.

Short-sighted bastards.

Daryl jabs his spoon into his pudding cup with more force than strictly necessary.

None of his usual lunch crew is around today. They all had other things to do, so Daryl is alone in the mess hall, eating his chocolate pudding.

He has no idea why people complain it's out all the time, he always finds a cup.

"Hey," a quiet voice comes from right next to him, and it takes everything in Daryl not to jump, or squeeze his cup until pudding flies everywhere.

He glances to the right, and there Paul is, standing a foot away.

Daryl doesn't speak, just grunts in a vaguely questioning way at him.

He still hasn't forgiven the asshole for holding a knife to his throat.

"I just... I wanted to say sorry. For the knife thing."

Daryl glances up at him again, trying to figure out if the apology is genuine or the man has ulterior motives.

Paul shifts on his feet uncomfortably, arms crossed tight across his stomach, but holds his gaze readily enough. His hair is tucked behind his ears, and Daryl realizes that he's looking at Paul face-to-face from a fairly short distance for the first time since they met.

He's got a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, jagged and old-looking. Daryl wonders what's the story behind it. Childhood prank? Runner lifestyle? Something completely random?

"S'fine," Daryl replies after a few seconds.

And just like that, it _is_.

Daryl understands what's it like to feel so desperate, helpless, trapped, hunted. Each and every one of those, together and in all combinations. He can't hold a grudge when Paul only wanted to live, improve his chances in what looked like an endless, fruitless fight.

Sometimes, the motives for doing something matter a whole lot.

Paul nods and walks away, his two shadows behind him as always.

Daryl goes back to his pudding.

~*~

Daryl is in a meeting and he has no idea why.

He'd sigh, but he doubts this crowd would appreciate just how bored he is. Or that he's showing it so openly.

Maybe they'll get a coffee break soon? And he can 'get lost' on the way back?

Nah, they'd never believe that.

Daryl resists the urge to squirm in his seat and tries to focus on what's going on.

Dr. Weir, Colonel Sheppard's team, and Rick are deep into a discussion on what to do with their new runner.

As expected, Ronon is all for keeping Paul here, big surprise. Teyla hasn't expressed an opinion so far, but if Daryl had to guess, she'll be in favor of keeping the newest addition to Atlantis. McKay is neutral and disinterested, Dr. Weir is skeptical, and Rick is see-sawing between suspicious, and keeping someone who's obviously a good resource on board.

Daryl doesn't particularly care what happens to him, and considers saying so, but speaking up will only prolong this torture so he keeps his mouth shut and his head down.

"He's a security problem any which way you put it," Rick says. "I sympathize with what he's been through, but he already knows way too much about Atlantis just to let him leave."

"You took me in, what's the problem," Ronon says. It's obvious he feels a kinship with Paul, which is pretty rare and uncharacteristic for the big guy. Ronon doesn't really hang out with anyone besides Sheppard and Teyla, and even McKay he barely puts up with. Then again, if anyone knows what he's been through, it's Paul, and vice versa. That's gotta be a pretty good starting point.

"I didn't say there was a problem, I just don't think us taking in every random person that we come across and has no place to go is a smart idea. This is not a charity we're running here, nor a shelter," Doctor Weir says, and honestly, Daryl can see her point. "And besides, I thought Runners were more Ronon's size, and extremely rare, barely a handful in the entire galaxy? Why is this one so different?"

Good question.

Just what is it about Paul that made the Wraith choose him as a plaything, when most Runners are double his size? Must've been something pretty impressive.

"What were the odds of us finding him in the first place? Another runner, fairly soon after Ronon? I, personally, find that suspicious," Weir continues.

Ronon grits his teeth but doesn't say anything. He can't really shoot down any of the questions she raises.

"Anyone ask him what he wants?" Daryl cuts in.

Everybody looks at him like they didn't even know he could speak.

"What?" he says, hackles up. It seems like a pretty relevant question to Daryl.

"I have spoken with Paul on a few occasions, and it seems like everyone he was close to died in the culling," Teyla jumps in, finally. "I do not think he has anywhere to go."

"Okay, and what do we do with him, _if_ we allow him to stay?" Sheppard says.

"He can fight, obviously," Rick says. "The men would benefit from training with him, since the Wraith are generally a stronger and larger opponent."

Sheppard and Ronon nod empathically at that, and Daryl almost snorts.

Always happy to have more fighters in their corner, those two. They're practically buzzing with excitement like a pair of kids.

"He is very good with people, I have seen him get along even with the surliest residents of Atlantis," Teyla pipes up again. "He'd be a valuable addition to the first contact teams."

"But there is no free spot in the first contact teams, and I don't see anyone who could be rotated out at the moment," Dr. Weir says, appearing to flip through a mental database.

"We gotta decide now?" Daryl's mouth says without his approval, and Dr. Weir raises an eyebrow at him.

Shit.

If he keeps talking at these things, Rick is gonna make him come more often.

Cursing his treacherous mouth, Daryl sinks a little in his seat and tries to make himself invisible.

"No, actually. And even when we do, I have to run it by IOA, so it's not a done deal. Let's leave it as is for the moment, maybe a solution presents itself soon. There's much more important things for us to worry about right now anyway," Weir says, and moves on to a different topic in the next breath.

Daryl doesn't open his mouth for the rest of the meeting.

~*~

On the way back to his quarters, Daryl glances out the window and sees Paul on a nearby balcony, looking out at the sea, hands in the pockets of his cargo pants.

He looks like he's thinking hard about something, eyes a deep and stormy grey, unfocused. There's a wrinkle in his forehead, and his lips are pressed together, chin sticking out a bit.

_He's angry_, Daryl thinks, and right on heels of it:_ No wonder_.

Atlantis, for all it's a military-run scientific mission, is also populated with people, and people are gossips. Daryl has no doubt word has gotten around what the meeting he just left was about, and if it was him in Paul's position? He'd be mighty pissed if a bunch of strangers met to decide his fate without even asking him what he wanted.

He suddenly feels bad for being bored and indifferent at the meeting.

Paul has lived through a shit-your-pants terrifying ordeal on the strength of his guts and brains alone. He deserves respect, not... whatever Daryl was doing in there.

Daryl chews on his lip and thinks about joining Paul on the balcony, when one of the guard-shadows approaches Paul from where he was standing a couple of paces back.

Paul tenses up, but by the time he faces the guard, all the emotions got wiped off his face and an easy smile has replaced them. He nods at whatever the guard says and they all leave, door sliding shut behind them silently.

_Huh_, Daryl thinks._ Interesting._

~*~

Teyla, the pocket-sized, dark-skinned, terrifying Athosian warrior that she is, was right.

Everyone Daryl talked to recently is buzzing about that 'charming Jesus guy', full of praise and curiosity.

It's getting pretty fucking annoying.

First of all – _Jesus_?

_Really?_

Daryl is nowhere near religious, but the nickname brings about weird implications when coupled with the way-too-flirty inflections some of the people have used when talking about the man.

Secondly, there is no possible way someone can adjust to Atlantis, or any sort of 'normal' life, so quickly after years of fighting for bare survival. It's either an act, or the man is a complete psychopath.

Thirdly, well. Daryl has seen for himself the man is a masterful actor. Whatever he's feeling is buried deep inside, and while Daryl can't begrudge anyone their secrets, in this case, a wild card of these skills and uncertain mental state isn't a smart thing to have on Atlantis.

The only people that don't seem charmed by Paul are his guards, all eight of them that rotate in six-hour two-man shifts, and the reason is because Paul regularly escapes their custody, and then they have to track him all over the city.

It's a _big_ fucking city.

Daryl's pretty sure he's climbing out the windows and scaling the towers like a monkey, fearless and reckless in equal measure, but he's not very fond of the guards either, so fuck telling them that.

He gets his answer on one of his sleepless nights, when he wanders past the gym at half past two in the morning and sees Paul beating the shit out of a punching bag.

His guards are not there, probably because he gave them the slip yet again, and he's barefoot, sweaty, and whaling on the heavy bag like his life depends on it.

Punches, kicks, roundhouse kicks, knees, elbows – there's not a body part that he doesn't use in some way to land a blow, and it's all as strangely graceful as it is violent. The muscles in his arms are in stark relief, the tank top doing about as well hiding his lean form as the sweatpants do – that is, none at all.

Weirdly, seeing this loss of his pleasant and unflappable mask makes Daryl relax a little bit. It's like the cracks make Paul human again, someone worthy of all the care and effort they are spending on him.

"Can't sleep?" Daryl asks, and the fact that Paul doesn't even startle confirms that there's no sneaking up on him.

The man has eyes at the back of his head.

"Yeah. Thought I'd take the chance to stay in shape," Paul pants out, throwing a casual smirk at him over his shoulder.

It's so fake, Daryl can't help but frown.

Not ready to take a chance on anyone just yet, then.

"Gonna leave you to it," Daryl says.

He hesitates for a few seconds out of whatever-the-fuck reason, but the dismissal is clear in the set of Paul's sweat-soaked shoulders.

"See you around," Paul says and aims a vicious kick at the bag.

Daryl goes.

~*~

Life on Atlantis is lively and busy as always: making connections with the native population of the galaxy, exploring the city, scientists geeking their little hearts out and gorging themselves on all the new information, soldiers running around thinking they're badass shit. Some are okay, like Rick and Sheppard and Lorne; some are utter psychopaths, like Negan.

If Daryl never hears another dick joke in his life, it's still gonna be too soon.

The only person seemingly out of place continues to be Paul the ex-Runner.

Oh, he's charming alright. Everyone likes him and seeks him out: from the scientists who love having another 'local expert' on flora and fauna, to the soldiers who'd prefer him in the gym for 12 hours of the day, spilling all his hand-to-hand secrets. There's no more security detail on him either, so he's free to go wherever he wants, talk and hang out with anyone, within reason.

Paul is sought after and popular, never alone; and yet, he's an outsider. Daryl isn't sure if people don't notice it, or if you have to _be_ the same type of outsider to see it, but it's clear as bell to him.

Paul _is_ alone.

Moreover, he's alone_ by choice_.

He covers it pretty well, but there's not a single person he talks to repeatedly, or more than half an hour at a time. He buzzes through all the sections and helps numerous people with the most random tasks, but never the same people, or for more than a day or two in a row.

He ghosts through the hallways of Atlantis, present but somehow not, and the more Daryl sees of him, the less he understands him.

Or, the less he understands _why_ Paul's pulling the most successful game of keep-away with the population of Atlantis Daryl's ever seen outside his own life.

Because there's a feeling of loss around him, hanging from his shoulders like a particularly heavy shroud, one that becomes obvious in his posture and his eyes when Paul thinks no one's looking.

(There's a reason Daryl is the best tracker and collector Atlantis has, okay, and it's _not_ because he's the elephant in the room. He's playing his own game of keep-away with most people in this floating city, and he's damn good at it. Damn good at lurking, too.)

It's all a mystery and food for thought, idle curiosity so to speak, until suddenly it's not.

Until the day Daryl finally sees Paul get caught by surprise, and by one of the geek squad no less.

Daryl thought Paul would jump, or maybe knock the person out. It's what Daryl himself does when people sneak up on him.

Paul, on the other hand, freezes. It's a full-body freeze, and it looks like he's keeping every single muscle in his body under rigid, almost superhuman control.

The next thing Daryl notices is_ why_.

He's got a knife in his hand, pressed so hard against his leg, it's a wonder his pants are still in one piece.

Ronon was like this in the beginning, only much more extreme. He'd lash out if you startled him, slam you against the wall or the floor, knock you out in an instant. More than one visit to the sickbay was made until everyone learned to _not_ startle the large Satedan under any circumstances, under pain of a concussion or even broken bones.

Paul never got that kind of treatment because Paul was _very_ in-control from the first moment he set foot on Atlantis.

Looking at the blade that the poor hapless geek hasn't even noticed as he chats with Paul, Daryl realizes that _this_ ex-Runner couldn't have let himself have the luxury of slamming people when startled like Ronon, because he's nowhere near Ronon's size, and he doesn't deal with threats in that way.

The moment Paul fails to react, he's dead.

So naturally, Paul goes for the kill.

Daryl doubts people would approve if Paul started to be stab-happy, and it's obvious Paul himself knows it, so Paul controls, and _controls_, and _shakes_, until he has no other choice but to let it all out during his night sessions with the punching bag.

How close was he to stabbing that geek in the jugular? How horrified would he be with himself if he did?

Is that the reason he stays away from everyone?

The whole thing is... fucking_ heartbreaking_.

It's also far from healthy, but what other choice is there? Daryl understands where he's coming from, but still.

The man has to talk to _someone_.

Daryl pulls back behind the corner, leans on the wall, and chews on his thumb as he thinks.

The city shrink is out of the question, as is Ronon (the man would take him out to stab or shoot something rather that talk about 'feelings', and that's completely fucking counterproductive). Not Dr. Weir (too official and highly ranked), nor Teyla (same type of 'handling' people, he'd see right through her), or Sheppard (take what Ronon would do and add golf), Rick (...no, just no), Glenn (um, not a single common point), Michonne (adding swords to the mix? Nope nope nope), Tara (even more nope than Rick, the woman doesn't have a drop of tact in her) –

Fuck, he's running out of people.

Sasha, maybe? Maggie, too, she seems to have a good head on her shoulders. Though, how a biologist from Earth can connect with a Runner from the Pegasus galaxy is a bit too much to ask from Daryl's imagination, but if anyone can do it, Maggie can.

Mind made up, Daryl walks purposefully towards the city center, ignoring the tiny voice in his head that's whispering that Paul's worming his way under Daryl's skin, and that it's not good not good _not good_.

Daryl's learned long ago not to listen to the asshole voices in his head, and he's not leaving someone to suffer a potential mental breakdown to spare his own precious _feelings_.

Besides, it's just a quick talk with Sasha and Maggie, it's not like they'll involve _Daryl_ into this whole thing.

_Ha_, as if.

~*~

Daryl huffs, and crosses his arms across his chest pointedly.

"Come on, Daryl, you're the one who noticed it,_ and_ came to us about it. Don't tell me you're not gonna do your part of the job now?"

Maggie is an evil, sneaky little asshole, and Sasha is even worse for enabling her.

"What part of the job, there ain't no job! I said three words to him, _and_ I stunned him when we met. You think he's gonna wanna talk to me?"

Sasha lifts her eyebrow and says, "But you expect him to talk to us? Two relative strangers he spoke _four_ words to, in the entire time he's been here?"

"You guys talk to... people. In general. And hang out with them," Daryl says, feeling awkward drawing attention to the fact that _he _doesn't do any of those things, but pushing through it.

"Well, seems to me, Paul doesn't talk or hang around with anyone _else_, either, so you guys have something in common. That's a great start to a conversation right there!" Maggie says in an obnoxiously cheerful tone of voice.

Daryl groans and thumps the back of his head against the wall.

A concussion would be nice right about now.

"Look, it's not like we're gonna leave everything to you. I, for one, like Paul. The shit he's been through is tough, but he survived, and I respect that. I'll talk to him more and try to get him a bit more involved, make him feel as if he's a part of this place. But Maggie's right. I think you have the best chance of actually getting through to him. So put your big boy pants on, and go 'hang out' with him yourself," Sasha says.

Goddamnit.

This thing is fucking doomed if it's gonna depend on getting _Daryl_ actually _talking_ to someone.

Daryl huffs again and storms off, regretting coming to talk to the two women, ever meeting Paul, ever _hearing_ of Atlantis, and possibly being born.

"Let us know how it went!" Maggie yells after him, and Daryl throws a middle finger over his shoulder.

He's never asking anything from anyone _ever again_.

~*~

A week later, Daryl is still trying to think of a way to approach Paul without a) making a fool of himself, b) making Paul feel hunted, spooked, or like he's under surveillance, and c) making the whole thing painfully awkward.

He's got nothin'.

He almost welcomes McKay when he decides to kidnap him for a day of 'try out these pieces of tech because they won't respond to me, you lowly plebe who is only here because you won the accidental gene lottery'.

Funny, how talking is still worse than the pure torture of McKay's simultaneously superior, obnoxious, _and_ condescending company. The man is abrasive, annoying, and gets on Daryl's last nerve, but if he loses his temper and slugs the man it'll land him into hot water with not only Sheppard's team, but Dr. Weir, _and_ it'll reflect badly on Rick.

So Daryl does the next best thing, which is play up the dumb redneck until McKay is frothing at the mouth.

It's surprisingly satisfying.

He's trying to see if he can convince the man he doesn't know what a molecule is, little by little, when he feels someone's eyes on him.

A quick look around reveals nothing, but when Daryl looks up, he sees Paul sitting on a protruding ledge about ten feet up, looking at the pair of them with his legs swinging and an actual smile on his face.

A _smile_.

Now _that's_ something he hadn't seen Paul's face do so far. He tries not to find it adorable and kind of fails.

Suddenly feeling brave and playful, Daryl winks at Paul, then looks away as McKay turns back around, arranging his face into its Dumbest Redneck configuration. McKay is gonna get apoplectic and rant about a security breach if he sees Paul up there, and besides, Daryl isn't nearly done messing with him.

It's even more fun doing this with an audience, though it's much harder to keep a straight face. Daryl plays up his act until McKay is almost purple with rage, and high above them, Paul is twitching and seizing from keeping his laughter in.

By the time Daryl gets thrown out of the lab by a screeching McKay, Paul is gone, vanished between one glance and the next as silently as he'd appeared.

Daryl's almost whistles in satisfaction as he's walking back to his quarters.

They didn't talk, and it wasn't much of an interaction, but that was a pretty good start.

~*~

Because this is Atlantis, and because McKay thinks he's god's gift to humanity and keeps fucking around with things he shouldn't even breathe next to, there's another lockdown.

The entire city is quarantined, people are stuck in whichever room or hallway they found themselves in when the alarm went off, and of course Daryl is in the mess hall, and _of course_ McKay is there, screaming into his comm and stressing everyone out.

Daryl retreats to a far corner before he puts one of the dull cafeteria knives through the man's tongue, and sits down, ready to wait this out. There's nothing he can do, no point in panicking, and besides, it's common enough by now that they all know the drill. It happens practically every other Thursday.

He hasn't even found a good position to keep his butt cheeks from going numb when a shadow falls over him.

"Can I sit here?" Paul asks.

Daryl shrugs, tries to keep his confusion to himself, and contain the thrill that ran through him at the sight of Paul.

Then he panics that Paul is gonna wanna _talk_, and has to wrestle_ that_ under control.

It's a lot of... feeling-like _things_ inside him, clamoring for attention all of a sudden, and Daryl is sure he'd have ran off by now if there _literally_ wasn't anywhere _to_ run at the moment.

They're under lockdown, for fuck's sake.

Daryl clears his throat, and stares straight ahead.

No one outside the few people he's friends with have ever tried to talk to him, let alone wanted to hang out. Daryl is not what you'd call 'good company', so what is Paul doing here?

Paul, unaware of the chaos inside Daryl's head, in the meantime sat down and leaned against the wall, legs stretched out just like Daryl's, and is currently doing...

Nothing.

Not a _single _thing.

He's sitting quietly, looking at people, and isn't say anything.

If you asked Daryl a minute ago, that would be the dream: no one talking to him or expecting anything from him. Especially Paul, who is... very perplexing, and interesting, and the goddamn curiosity is like an itch deep under Daryl's skin.

"It's probably gonna be over soon. McKay pulls shit like this twice a month," Daryl says, then dares to look at the man beside him.

His eyes are fucking unreal, blue-gray and way too intense, so Daryl looks away quickly.

"Oh? I heard something about it, but this is the first time I'm experiencing it."

"Yeah. McKay keeps poking his nose where it don't belong. Luckily, he can fix it, too, most of the time."

He says the last part grudgingly, more to reassure Paul than because McKay deserves it.

Just because McKay's a genius doesn't mean he can treat people like shit.

Daryl narrows his eyes in McKay's direction. The man would have probably been killed by all the angry people on Atlantis long ago, if he hadn't fixed the shit he pulled more often than not.

"Good to know," Paul says, voice warm and low.

Daryl glances back at Paul and finds the same amusement he saw in McKay's lab written on his face, though the smile is missing.

It's too bad. It's a nice smile.

Daryl twitches a corner of his lips and nods, then sighs and leans against the wall.

The rest of the quarantine is spent in comfortable silence; Paul a solid, quiet presence next to him.

~*~

"Hey."

"Hey," Daryl says, trying to keep his eyebrows from jumping up in surprise.

Paul looks like he's here deliberately, like he's been looking for Daryl, and that's a first.

"Got permission to stay here. On Atlantis," Paul says, and wow, this is a day of firsts – it's the first personal thing he told Daryl.

Probably anyone, actually, if the way he's behaving is any indication. Daryl has seen Sheppard disarm bombs with less care.

Daryl stares at him for a moment, then nods.

"That's good," he says, not really sure what else he can say about it, then tacks on a hurried, "I'm glad."

Paul looks at him carefully, not quite head on but close enough. Daryl feels like he's being weighed and judged, like the next few minutes will decide what their interactions will be forever.

He's oddly nervous about it.

Paul bites his lip and then says hesitantly, "Had a long talk with Dr. Weir. I don't think she likes me very much."

The last bit is said hushed and unsure, almost like he's looking for reassurance. From _Daryl_, of all people. Since when is Daryl a source of reassurance, to anyone?

Maybe Paul got some faulty information. Maybe it's some other Dar—

Okay, no, that's ridiculous, he _knows_ there's no other Daryl here.

Still. For all that it's really strange, Daryl's kind of glad Paul came to him.

"Nah. She's just got a lot on her mind. Ain't easy running a place like this, everyone breathin' down your neck. She's a good one, takes care of her own."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Daryl nods, hopes that 'you're safe here, you can relax' comes across loud and clear.

Please, god, don't make him say it out loud.

"Okay," Paul says, nodding a little, and then quieter, again, "okay."

He doesn't sound completely convinced, but that's normal. It takes time to build trust, and it goes both ways. Hopefully, fate is gonna give them a break and make this ride a smooth one.

Paul certainly deserves it.

~*~

In a strange sequence of events that no one is quite sure of, Paul gets assigned to be a part of the Pegasus galaxy exploration teams.

Then he gets assigned to Rick's team, because Tara is a clumsy-ass who managed to twist her ankle and is therefore on sick leave.

Fortunately, that means she's complaining to her girlfriend for once, and not into Daryl's ear. Why does she think he's even remotely interested in anything she has to say? He knows more about the two of them then about his own family, for fuck's sake.

Paul, unlike Daryl himself, seems happy to wear a uniform and not stand out of the crowd anymore.

Sometimes Daryl doubts the man's sanity has survived his runner years.

"Everyone ready?" Rick asks from the pilot seat, Sasha riding shotgun, Daryl and Paul in the seats behind them.

"Ready," they all confirm together, and the jumper flies through the Stargate.

Everything goes pear-shaped within minutes of them walking into the village.

The natives take offence with them collecting samples of pretty much anything, and, since Rick tries to avoid bloodshed and bad relations, they end up tied to a pole. At least no one seems like they want to kill them, and Atlantis should be sending a second team to investigate if they don't check in within an hour or so.

Still, it _sucks_, and puts unnecessary pressure on Daryl's bad shoulder.

Paul squirming at his back snaps Daryl out of thinking about all the ribbing they're gonna get from the other teams over this, and he almost hisses at him to cut it out.

He chokes the words back when he feels cool metal against his wrist.

"Where did you--" he starts, and Paul elbows him as much as he can.

"They didn't search me as well as they thought they had, now shut up," he whispers, and starts cutting Daryl's rope slowly so he doesn't draw attention, or cuts further than necessary and makes this situation so much worse.

Within minutes, they're both free and waiting for an opportunity to release Rick and Sasha and make a run for it.

"I'll distract them, you guys go, I can catch up," Paul says, and hell no, Daryl is not playing this game with him.

"Like hell you are, you're comin' with us. We ain't leavin' anyone behind," he whisper-hisses into his shoulder.

"I can do it!"

"This ain't about can or can't, you _won't_."

"What is your problem?" Paul shoots back, and if this escalates any more it'll attract the attention of their guards, currently more interested in a spitting contest than watching them.

There is no fucking way Daryl is letting Paul do _anything_ that's gonna put him into danger unnecessarily, even if he has to sit on the little fucker, or carry him bodily to the jumper.

Saying that in those terms, however, probably won't help, so he tries to be diplomatic.

"My _problem_ is you doin' any sort of martyr _shit_, so shut the fuck up and—"

Daryl sees their opportunity and doesn't even bother finishing the sentence, just grabs Paul's wrist and _pulls_, leaving him with no choice but to follow.

Thankfully, Paul gets with the program, sliding Daryl another knife he somehow managed to hold on to. Daryl swallows his relief, and the questions about just_ where_ Paul keeps all these knives, and cuts the rope Rick's tied with quickly.

They're off before the guards can sound the alarm.

The whole way back to the Stargate, Daryl's hand and fingers keep tingling, phantom warmth on his palm, even though he let go as soon as he was sure the little asshole won't stay behind.

It's distracting, no matter how many times Daryl tells himself it's just blood rushing back after being tied up for a while.

Even his denial has its limits.

~*~

It was inevitable, Paul was going to find out sooner or later.

There was only so many times he could deflect before it came out.

Before they met.

Daryl just finally gave up on fighting it.

"So you just watch Ronon and Teyla beat people up?" Paul asks, half distracted by the popcorn.

What is it with the Pegasus galaxy and corn? Sheppard says Teyla and Ronon are just as bad.

Maybe Daryl can use this as a bargaining chip? More popcorn if Paul stops throwing himself into danger willy-nilly? Two bags for getting McKay to purple-face levels of rage?

Daryl looks at the bowl thoughtfully.

"And you, that one time," Glenn says with a tiny bit of hero-worship.

Paul's head snaps up and then he shoots an inscrutable look at Daryl, who is most definitely _not_ flushing.

"And this is fun... why?" he says nonchalantly after a beat.

"Watch and see," Glenn says, as if magnanimously uncovering the secrets of the universe to him, and Paul's lip twitches.

"Okay."

Paul and Glenn hit it off, just like Daryl feared they would.

He'd be much grumpier if they weren't so damn happy, gasping and cheering whenever Teyla or Ronon pull a particularly cool move.

Daryl crams another handful of popcorn in his mouth and laments the days he was a solitary, broody redneck.

Then Paul looks at him, cheeks flushed and hair in disarray, and Daryl reconsiders.

This isn't so bad, either.

~*~

"The worst thing was the not touching."

Paul extends one hand toward Daryl, slow and careful like Daryl is the damaged wild animal here, and rests the middle three fingers lightly on Daryl's wrist.

The pulse point.

Daryl swallows, carefully still.

They never talk about this. For all that Daryl started Operation: Stop Paul From Losing His Mind, for all that he _knows_ that Paul talks to Sasha and Maggie now, even considers them his friends, the two of them never breached the subject.

Daryl kind of hoped it'll all fix itself on its own, go away, or magically get better, but he doesn't think it did.

Paul is better, no doubt. He has people he talks to, and now he's on a team he has a purpose, so he's not so jumpy anymore. But Daryl still sees that look in his eyes sometimes, the worried and calculating one, the helpless anger.

And now, this.

It's the middle of the night, the cafeteria is empty with only the emergency lights on, and they're both here because they can't sleep. Because this became a ritual in the last week or so, and Daryl can't give it up, even when he _can_ sleep.

He _cannot_ fuck this up.

"Must've been tough," he says finally, forcing himself to keep the eye contact, even though his heart is going a mile a minute.

"Yeah," Paul says, eyes haunted, and Daryl can't take it anymore.

He reaches out with his other hand across the table, carefully, and covers Paul's hand with his own.

Paul shudders and closes his eyes, slides the fingers until he can wrap his hand around Daryl's wrist, just tight enough not to hurt.

To feel Daryl's pulse beat against his palm.

"Good thing there's lots of people to touch 'round here," Daryl says a bit helplessly.

Paul _smiles_, folds his other arm and lays his head on it, eyes still closed.

They stay like that for a long time.

~*~

Tara returns, and Paul gets assigned to Simon's team which, honestly, worries Daryl more than a little.

Simon's team has a reputation for highly revolving members, at least one every few months for one reason or another (death, injury, request for a transfer, and so on), with Simon and Dwight the only permanent members.

Daryl isn't quite sure how it happened, it's been less than two months since they found the little asshole, but there's no denying he's attached to the pocket ninja. He's constantly distracted, worrying Paul will get hurt, wondering if he's okay when he goes out on missions.

Paul's not okay, anyone can see that.

He is subdued and tired a lot, which is very different from when he was on Rick's team. He's also hurt more often than normal, but that's neither here or there, since Daryl knows he doesn't report more than half his injuries because 'It's nothing, I've had worse'.

Unfortunately, short of Daryl making a fuss, which both of them hate to do, and landing Paul in a mess, which they'd both hate even more, there's nothing much to do.

So Daryl worries, and waits, and keeps track of Paul.

Sooner or later, something's gotta give.

He just hopes it's not gonna be Paul.

~*~

"You okay?" he asks as he enters Paul's quarters, and finds him bandaging his waist.

Paul nods and finishes up with a wince.

Daryl curses in his head and narrows his eyes at Paul, because he's way too practiced at this, which means he's been getting hurt even more than Daryl knows.

"Y'know you're supposed to report all injuries to the docs?" Daryl can't help but mention, though he knows it won't do any good.

"It's just a bruise. They have too much work to do anyway."

Like he'd be caught dead in there. He hates that place more than Daryl, which is almost impossible.

Luckily, Daryl knew what he was walking into, and planned accordingly.

"Fine," Daryl says, and pulls out the scanner he lifted from the infirmary.

Paul stares at it as if it's a snake, and Daryl huffs. "It's just to check if you got internal bleeding or somethin'. Stay still."

He scans him slowly, head included, very carefully around his bandages and injuries, and sneakily all the way down to his toes, and finds everything in order. A few bruises, some inflamed muscles, but nothing out of the ordinary.

"Says here you gotta lie down and rest," Daryl lies without a shred of shame, and Paul throws him a suspicious look but complies.

Daryl fusses with the pillow and the blankets until Paul starts grumbling and kicks at him, then retreats.

He doesn't go too far, though. Thing is, having The Gene means the city sometimes reveals unexpected things to you – like a tiny alcove with bedding to settle in right outside Paul's quarters.

He sleeps better when within reach of the pocket Runner anyway.

~*~

Paul has nightmares.

Daryl can't tell if they're from this run, his time here, his time as a Runner, from Before – for all he knows, Paul's mind is an endless library full of nightmare-inducing shit to choose from every night – but whatever they are, they're vivid, and keep Paul up half the night.

The only reason Daryl stays out of Paul's room is because it'd be way too creepy to just walk in randomly in the middle of the night. And because Paul seems to snap to wakefulness pretty soon by himself.

The whole thing has a depressingly routine-like feel to it.

He has no idea how Paul manages his missions on this little sleep. He's got one tomorrow, for fuck's sake.

Daryl sighs, rubs his eyes roughly, and decides to keep vigil for the rest of the night.

_He_, after all, can afford to sleep in.

~*~

Paul stumbles back through the Stargate after Dwight and Simon, Arat supporting his weight, half-covered in blood _yet again_, and Daryl sees red.

"Hey, assholes," he shouts as he's rushing down the stairs in the gate room two- and three-at-a-time, but Paul all but collapses before Daryl can beat the shit out of the dickhead duo.

Daryl abandons all thought of violence and catches Paul's other side, Arat giving him a grim nod in thanks.

"Medical team to gate room," Dr. Weir says into her comm, then snaps as soon as she reaches them, "What the hell happened?"

Simon and Dwight fall over themselves in an effort to explain, but Daryl isn't listening,

"Don't," Paul slurs out at Daryl as Denise is checking his wounds, and Daryl looks at him in disbelief.

"What--"

"I know what you're thinking. Don't. Not for me. Not worth it."

On the contrary, Daryl is pretty sure he'd take all possible heat and trouble just for a chance to cave someone's face in because of this, but Paul plays dirty.

"Promise," he says with a too tight grip on Daryl's forearm.

God-fucking-dammit.

Daryl nods reluctantly, and Paul lets go and passes out.

Fuck fuck _fuck._

~*~

"You know you don't gotta to do whatever they say, right? Weir ain't gonna kick you out for that?"

Paul looks at him, weirdly unsure, as if Daryl is preparing a trap.

Maybe it's all the caged-tiger-pacing Daryl's been doing since he came to see Paul in his quarters.

Maybe he should stop that.

"Yeah?" Paul asks, and Daryl nods empathically, holding as still as possible.

"Hell yeah."

The light in Paul's eyes dawns slowly, and Daryl grins.

Okay. Things seem to be improving.

~*~

Two days later, Paul walks back through the Stargate first with an energetic spring to his step, while Dwight and Simon limp in together half a minute later, an assortment of black eyes and bruises on them.

Daryl grins, and hopes to hell that this means Paul won't get hurt on missions _ever _again.

~*~

It doesn't, as is proven, depressingly enough, within the subsequent three missions.

Then again, it's Paul's own damn fool self's fault he got hurt, so, eh.

Daryl can mostly live with that.

~*~

Paul is _laughing_.

Daryl has seen him smile, and snicker, and cackle while throwing popcorn at the screen with Glenn, but actual laughter?

This is the very first time.

The sound is rich, a little rusty, and wonderful to hear. Daryl can't help but stare, having forgotten what they were even talking about just now, suddenly aware of a twisting vine wrapped around his heart and pulling and pulling and _pulling_ towards Paul.

This is—

Shit, Daryl's—

The detonation shakes the hallway, an explosion of sound and rocks that throws them both backwards, and Daryl only has the time to think _'No no not Paul NO!'_ before something slams into his head and everything goes black.

~*~

(Something _gives_ in Daryl's mind, his desperation in the split second between the explosion and the rocks falling cracks a glass wall he wasn't even aware existed, and an alien presence swallows his mind whole.)

~*~

"Daryl. Daryl!"

Consciousness returns in a rush, and he feels hands on his shoulders, shaking him lightly.

The first thing he sees is Paul's ear, a sort of golden glow barrier that ends in the floor a few inches in front of his face, and darkness beyond that.

No, not darkness. Rocks.

He's lying halfway across Paul's torso, he realizes. The attempt to pull back doesn't work so well because of the aforementioned golden glow, which is apparently half a sphere that seem to be the only thing between them and a shit ton of rubble.

He puts some of his weight on his elbows and blinks down at Paul, disoriented.

There's a strange pressure at the back of his head, and he tries to touch it but there's nothing there. He's not bleeding.

"Hey, hi, you okay?" Paul says shakily.

"Yeah... I... I think so. You?"

"Yes, I'm okay. Just a few bruises from when I hit the floor. The rocks didn't touch me."

Well, it looks like the damn gene is good for something after all. Some sort of ancient tech must've been triggered, and it probably saved both their lives.

Paul swallows, then asks: "What is this?"

He waves a hand vaguely, indicating the glowing dome, and Daryl shrugs.

"No idea."

Paul says, "Huh", then pokes a finger at the dome right above his head before Daryl can tell him not to.

"_Hey_," Daryl splutters.

You don't touch things you doesn't know the purpose of, it's the first _goddamn_ rule of Atlantis.

Nothing happens to Paul, thankfully, as the finger only _thonks_ harmlessly against the barrier.

It's solid.

They sit up, untangling carefully, and take a look around.

"Now what?" Paul asks after a long pause, and Daryl can only shrug again.

"We wait, I guess. Someone should come lookin'."

Paul doesn't look too comforted by the idea.

"Do we have enough air?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Daryl snaps, then regrets it immediately. "Yeah, I think so."

Paul just nods, because he's impossible to offend and way too good of a human being to hang out with the likes of Daryl, and settles on the cold floor a bit more comfortably.

Daryl groans, frustrated, feeling stressed out already, not two minutes into this shit.

He's not exactly a fan of small spaces.

Paul pokes him in the knee with a finger.

"It's going to be okay," he says, earnest, and for some stupid reason, Daryl believes him.

"Okay," he says on a sigh.

~*~

They're found within 15 minutes, dug out within an hour.

It's faster than most drills they've run in Atlantis, no matter the type.

Weird.

~*~

Daryl wakes up the morning after and there's... _something_ in his mind.

It's subtle at first, easy to ignore and attribute to the knock in the head Daryl had yesterday.

Then it reads Daryl as conscious and awake, throws a picture of something that looks like a dolphin flipping out of the sea at him, then of a party of some sort, then a huge question mark, and oh, boy, there's no ignoring_ that_.

There's a _Fucking._ _Presence. In. His. Mind_.

Daryl's brain spins like a hamster in a wheel for a few minutes.

What the fuck does he _do_ about this? This wasn't covered in any of the – frankly, incredibly detailed and downright disturbing – information packets he's read so far.

Then again, he mostly skimmed those, so maybe it was?

He remembers vaguely there's an alien race possessing people, and there's something about golden eyes in there, but this doesn't feel like that. For one, he thinks he shouldn't be conscious and aware for that type of possession, and for another, the alien isn't supposed to be able to communicate with him in his mind, or give him control of his own body.

Daryl checks again, just to make sure he hasn't lost his mind.

Yep, it's there, sitting in the back of his head: an unblinking gaze, endlessly patient and utterly alien.

It's fucking unnerving as hell, is what it is.

Daryl hisses _'what'_ at it out loud, like a dipshit, and it sends another flurry of images at him. If Daryl is reading them correctly, It (Atlantis? _Atlantis?!_) waited for a thousand years, asleep, and now it woke up.

Apparently, the city of Atlantis, the one Daryl is in right fucking now, is _sentient_, and it can _communicate_, via _images_.

Daryl decides he can't deal with this shit right now.

He also decides it's just a hallucination from a knock to the head, one _no one has to know about_, then gets dressed and hurries off to the briefing doctor Weir insisted on.

~*~

"What are you saying, McKay?"

"I'm saying that there's no traceable tech anywhere near that corridor. No shields, no built in caches of technology, no nanites, not even their communicators were with them. And yet the golden shield appeared, and all our systems were alerted and sounded the alarm about two bodies beneath the rubble within seconds of the explosion happening. Not only that, but all rescue teams report arriving to the destination in record time, and the rubble being suspiciously easy to clear out."

"Then how did they survive?" Dr. Weir asks, baffled, and McKay shifts as if uncomfortable.

"From what I can tell, and this is an educated guess at best... Dixon _wished_ it so hard that the city simply complied and made it possible."

There's a stunned moment of silence in the room, and then all eyes lock on Daryl in unison.

Daryl doesn't move a muscle, still sprawled in his chair, hands fisted on his thighs.

McKay, the fucker, continues without mercy.

"The readings we got from the shield around them are the same ones as the Atlantis' main shield, just an extremely localized version of it. It's possible the option is implanted into the walls and floors themselves, but with all of us being only distant descendants of the Ancients, and having a diluted version of the original gene, means only those with the highest affinity can access them."

"Daryl?" Dr. Weir asks, like he's a kid that cheated on an exam and she can't figure out how.

Daryl shrugs aggressively, hopefully covering his freak-out and not projecting 'There Is Something Wrong In My Mind And It Could Be A City' too loud.

"I dunno what the hell happened. I was unconscious, 'member?"

"It's true, he was. For at least a minute," Paul adds, and nudges his boot against Daryl's beneath the table.

It helps, more than Daryl would care to admit.

"And there's nothing you've seen or heard that can help explain this?" Weir asks suspiciously.

Both Paul and he shake their heads in tandem.

Weir waits for a beat, then presses the root of her nose with a thumb and forefinger, as if staving off a headache.

"All right. McKay, get to the bottom of this. Dixon, report to the infirmary again, they want to do more tests. And be at McKay's disposal when he has theories to test out. I want this explained as soon as possible. Understood?"

They all '_Yes, ma'am_' her and file out promptly, scattering to do her bidding.

Infirmary then McKay, fucking _great_.

Daryl stalks off, half-way to being pissed off already.

~*~

_Why me?_ Daryl thinks at Atlantis later that night, and it shows him an image of Colonel Sheppard being bitten by the whatsitsname bug and therefore tainted by Wraith by association, and Doctor Beckett being way too scared of the tech to ever fully give into it.

It also shows him the accident and himself, scared out of his wits and desperate, simultaneously reaching out and pushing with his mind until he connected to it like no one dared to before.

As for the connection itself, it's difficult to explain it in images – even in words, Daryl would imagine – but Atlantis tries. It's the obvious, like being able to control the city's interactive parts, stuff he's done before but on a more intuitive, automatic level. It's also a mutual kind of thing, in that Atlantis keeps an eye on Daryl: his position, his vitals, and his schedule.

Finally, there's the fucking weird and inexplicable part, as in Atlantis being able to sense his moods and preferences.

_That_ part doesn't become obvious until a few days into their strange symbiosis.

It starts with the 'Dwight can't get any ancient tech to work for him, _at all_' thing, continues with the 'Daryl keeps getting the last chocolate pudding cup' thing, then the 'Negan gets locked into a storage room and no one can get him out for 2 days' thing, then the 'Michonne finds lab time slots mysteriously available even when they're booked weeks in advance' thing, and it _just keeps happening_.

It's like Atlantis is reading his mind – well, wishes and indignation, mostly – before he's even aware of them enough to form sentences in his head. 'Weird glitches' and 'equipment malfunctioning' are becoming a frustratingly normal occurrence in Atlantis.

As fun as this 'just desserts' and 'good luck for his friends' thing initially is, Daryl starts working on his control.

It's like training a puppy, one very enthusiastic in its eagerness to please, but also very destructive, but the puppy is a _whole city_. With an attitude problem the size of, well, Daryl's attitude and authority problems combined.

Daryl does _not_ appreciate the 'lesson' in how other people feel when dealing with _him_ in the slightest.

Not to mention the fact that everyone now thinks he's getting _stupider_ because some wires get crossed, and he sometimes stops suddenly, or argues 'with himself' in empty corridors, or loses track of conversations, or sits zoned out at breakfast.

It's not easy going around doing normal things while arguing with a sentient city in your head, _okay_?

Daryl groans aloud and covers his head with a pillow, trying to ignore the constant 'poke ... poke ... poke' in the back of his mind that's the city's equivalent of a wake-up call.

He can't even oversleep and miss the meetings anymore,_ what did he do to deserve this_?

He sends a middle finger to Atlantis, knowing it can feel _and_ see him.

It cheerfully repeats the image back to him.

After a few more minutes of sulking, he grudgingly gets up and goes into the bathroom.

Better not risk the 'trumpets blaring at a volume loud enough to shake his bed' stage of waking up.

_Ugh._

~*~

"How does a redneck get the ancient gene? I just don't get it," one of the brain squad says. "And now he's gotten even more... _defective_."

It's nothing Daryl hasn't heard before, nothing he hasn't learned to ignore long ago. He sends an extra little ping of _'don't'_ at Atlantis before there's another capital-I-Incident, and moves on as if nothing happened.

Paul, though, gets really quiet, and ice seems to radiate off his skin.

Daryl can almost imagine it soaking into his own, chilly and strangely comforting.

"Don't," Daryl repeats aloud.

It's exactly what Paul said to him weeks earlier, but now he understands how exhausting it can be, engaging with someone you _know_ won't change their mind. You only expose your weak sports, show that you're bothered by that kind of behavior.

Fighting and standing up for yourself takes guts, and it's necessary so you aren't perceived as weak and become a punching bag, yes. But there are days when you just don't have the energy for it.

Paul looks ready to object, with fists and a roundhouse-kick to the head, but something in Daryl's face must show how tired he is, how unwilling to even _look_ at that pompous dick right now. The fact that the tablet in the asshole's hands doesn't spark and zap him is a hollow victory.

Daryl thought being the bigger man would feel better.

Paul sighs, throwing one final glare over Daryl's shoulder, then asks, quietly, "One of your headaches?"

Daryl rubs at his forehead and nods, feeling guilty for lying to Paul but unable to think of anything else to say. '_I have Atlantis in my head_' sounds a little bit insane, and besides, what if he's imagining it? What if he truly, finally _did_ lose his mind?

And while it would explain a lot, Daryl doesn't want to deal with all this being real, either. A little denial and burying his head in the sand never killed anyone. Daryl is convinced of this.

Besides, who'd ever guess the headaches are a cover for 'arguing with the alien city I'm telepathically connected to'?

No one, that's who.

~*~

Daryl doesn't tell a soul about his newfound abilities.

Paul _still_ figures it out, in record time.

"Atlantis, please turn off the lights," Paul whispers out of nowhere on one of their movie nights, and they click off just like that.

"The fuck?" Daryl says, baffled for _a whole list_ of reasons, but mostly because _since when_ does Atlantis respond to anyone but him?

Paul smirks. "Oh, I'm sorry, was it supposed to be a secret? I can keep pretending I don't know, if you want."

Daryl just stares at him, gaping like a goldfish.

"Um..."

"It's okay. Atlantis only responded because you're here."

Oh, okay then.

Still doesn't explain fucking _anything_, but okay.

"And because you like me."

Daryl chokes on his popcorn and flushes, grateful for the semi-darkness that hopefully covers just how red he is.

The shit-eating grin on Paul's face deserves a glare, but if Daryl turns towards him, he's gonna implode from embarrassment, so he lets it go.

But only because he's nice like that.

Thankfully, Paul lets it go, too.

The sneaky, know-it-all _fucker_.

~*~

Paul gets the royal treatment after that, which Daryl aggressively doesn't think about.

If he was sneaky before, now, with the city's help, he's downright a ghost. He melts into literal walls, manages to climb the unclimbable towers, and more than one person ends up convinced he's _magic_.

Daryl tries not to tear his hair out in despair, because the last thing he needs is the pocket runner being even more reckless than he already is. At least Atlantis is kind enough to always keep a sit-rep on Paul at hand.

It's a mental map– sort of thing, Paul's location in the city with the option of zooming for closer examination if needed. Daryl tries not to abuse it, but it's comforting, knowing Paul is healthy and roaming the city, being able to pinpoint his whereabouts whenever.

Small mercies.

~*~

Atlantis gets infiltrated _again_, and seriously, what is it with everyone wanting the city so bad? Sure, it's a marvel of architecture and advancement, but it gets attacked like every five seconds. It's just not worth it.

What the attackers (the Genii, _again_, for fuck's sake) don't count on is Daryl, or Paul, but most of all, Atlantis itself.

For every door opening, Paul is like an avenging angel of stealth and incapacitation.

For every corridor, there's a trapdoor and a plunge into the deep, scary ocean beneath them.

The Genii take the control room, thinking that _that's_ going to be their final and triumphal blow.

It should have been.

Atlantis locks the control room down, blocks all the consoles, and only listens to what Daryl tells her.

Some sneaking around and a little bit of sleeping gas later, and the Genii are all passed out and tied up, Atlantis safely in their hands again.

Well, Daryl's hands, technically.

Since this shouldn't be possible, and wouldn't have been, without Daryl's...

..._shit_.

~*~

The truth comes out.

Dr. Weir _flips_.

There's no other word for it, though she's all polite and calm about it.

They're in the conference room _yet again_ – Daryl's spending way too much time there lately for his taste – but this time they're all a lot more somber.

All but Ronon, who seems to find this whole drama hilarious for multiple reasons, but he's an ass anyway.

"You can't have the power to override our top secret codes, Dixon," Weir repeats in that sharp, take-no-bullshit tone of hers.

"It ain't my fault, 's not like I wanted this damn thing in my head," Daryl snaps back.

"Can't you... talk to it? Explain that there's rules, and protocol, and that they're there for a reason, and it can't just do what it wants?" Sheppard asks, and wow, he's the one to talk about breaking the rules.

"I _tried_. It. _don't_. _work_," Daryl articulates very clearly, the _'fuck you and fuck OFF'_ ringing clearly under his words.

"Well, try _harder_," McKay jumps in, then proceeds to go on _another_ rant of how unfair it is that Daryl's the one that gets this, how dangerous it is, how 'the idiot could blow them all up if he sneezes', and Daryl's had _enough_ of people talking out of their ass about shit they don't understand.

"It ain't my _goddamn fault_!" Daryl shouts, and the lights go very bright for a second before they dim again.

They all fall silent and look at him, and for the first time ever, there's apprehension in their eyes.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he continues, trying to explain and control himself and keep Atlantis from throwing a fit. "You get that, right? Atlantis wasn't _made_ to be sentient. But ten thousand years of being alone makes for some damn strange glitches."

"It's incredibly dangerous. You could order it to open a quarantined area and it would comply." Doctor Beckett has a point, but it's not helping. Besides—

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"What if someone has you at gunpoint?" Sheppard says.

"Someone Atlantis can't get to?" Daryl scoffs.

"What if—"

"You do realize that we'll have no choice but to remove you from the city if the situation persists?" Weir says, and Daryl was distantly aware of the possibility, but the way Weir says it is like ice pouring down the back of his shirt.

His distress is palpable, and apparently obvious enough that the city goes into immediate shutdown: all the doors and shields slam shut, all consoles and access panels are inaccessible, the light shuts off and emergency red washes over pale faces.

They all look at him with various levels of fear and grim satisfaction, like he just proved their point, and Daryl hates it.

He fucking _hates it_.

He never asked for any of this, to come to Atlantis, to face fucking _space vampires_, to get an alien presence _in his brain_, but _here he is_.

This is his home.

This is _his home_.

Paul is here, and Rick, and even Glenn, Denise, Tara, Michonne, Aaron, all of his friends.

Like _hell_ is he gonna let anyone bully and scare him away from it.

"Dixon, calm down," Sheppard says, one hand on his gun and the other outstretched towards him, the classic 'negotiating with the terrorist' pose.

Daryl _seethes_, and his connection to Atlantis grows heavy in his chest.

He wants to spit and curse, but it won't do any good.

_It won't do any good._

So Daryl breathes, and concentrates, and one by one, he calls back all the freak-out measures Atlantis just threw out.

Then he walks away before any of them manage more than a word to stop him.

~*~

Daryl is in bed, staring at the wall and not getting any sleep at all, when his door whooshes open and familiar footsteps approach.

There's a scuffing sound, then the bed dips, and a body settles behind him.

He can almost feel Paul's heat against his back, and he'd chuckle at how this mirrors the day they met, how _that_ was also a pretty shitty day, but he can't.

There's a rock lodged in his throat and it won't move.

"Are they going to send you away?" Paul asks quietly.

"I don't know," Daryl whispers, and closes his eyes to stop the burning. "I hope not."

He hopes like hell. He'd miss this place, like a fucking organ that's ripped out of him. The people, the new worlds, the exploring.

The fucking pudding cup he always finds.

He'd miss Paul, too. He'd miss him something fierce.

There's a beat, then Paul says:

"Me too."

After that, there's not much else to say.

~*~

They sleep.

Daryl didn't think he'd be able to, but somewhere between Paul sneaking in and the millionth time he's going over what he can do to fix this fucked-up situation (_nothing_, he can't do a goddamn thing, and the rage and helplessness is _choking him_), he slipped into the dream world.

He jolts awake and turns around, bleary-eyed and confused, and finds Paul still in his bed.

He's still sleeping, all dressed except for his boots. His arms are pulled close to his chest, knees bent, hair half on his face. Daryl thinks about how uncomfortable that hair must be, ticklish and itchy as it moves with every breath, so he combs it away gently with his fingers.

It wakes Paul up – of course it does, what was he _thinking_? – but before Daryl can pull away, Paul smiles.

He smiles, at Daryl, like there's nothing wrong, like he's _happy_ to be here.

Here, with _Daryl_. Even though... even though he knows _everything_ Daryl is, the weirdness and the grumpiness and how unworthy he is.

For the second time, something inside Daryl _cracks_, only this time, it's his own self-control, his willful denial.

Daryl leans over and plants his lips on Paul's.

He has _no idea_ what the fuck he's _doing_, emotions spinning out of control, and he barely has the mental capacity to tell Atlantis to ignore everything until he contacts it again, before he shuts the mental doors into its face.

The kiss is forceful and clumsy, aggressive because otherwise it's too much, too out of his experience, too _scary_. There was little to no kissing in his life so far, the few make-outs in school bland and uninteresting, the hook-ups in his adult life serving a whole different purpose than putting mouths to mouths.

He's mouth to mouth now, because he couldn't take another moment of not being, and he didn't even ask permission.

He backs off hurriedly at that thought, chanting, "Sorry sorry sorry—" as he goes, but Paul doesn't look freaked out.

Paul doesn't let Daryl back off too far, either.

"Hey, shhh, no, 's okay," Paul says as he draws closer, and brings their mouths back into contact.

Paul, unlike Daryl, clearly knows what he's doing.

He gentles the kiss, makes it firm but not painful, a soft sort of thing that _aches_ in Daryl's chest.

It's too much, all of it: Atlantis, and Paul, and his fucking _life_, and Daryl tries to make this quick again, tries to get it to hurt because everything in his life hurts, so why not this? Daryl doesn't know softness, doesn't _trust_ it. It'll swallow him whole like a marshmallow cloud, choke him in the unrealistic pink that only exists in movies and soap operas.

He wants to get this over with because he doesn't deserve it, and Paul will know it, he'll come to his senses any second now. Anything is better than this limbo, than waiting for rejection when Paul learns Daryl has no idea what he's doing, and _why_.

Paul refuses to cooperate.

He puts firm hands on Daryl, like one would on a spooked horse, and kisses him, slow and soft, and kisses him some more, merciless and without a hurry, and _kisses him_, until Daryl lets go of all control, turns pliant and soft, helpless in a whole new way.

And when he stops kissing him, Paul just looks at him, with inscrutable eyes, until Daryl drops his to Paul's collarbones.

"Paul," he said, uncertain and shaky, and Paul folds him into an embrace, arms like a vice around Daryl. He kisses Daryl's neck, and ear, and hair, cheek, anything he can reach while not letting go.

Then he backs up just a little, loosens his embrace, and kisses him some more, until Daryl loses all sense of time. Daryl is falling _the fuck_ apart, feels like he's holding his bleeding heart in shaking hands and offering it to Paul as a sacrifice. Hoping against hope that it won't get dropped, stepped on, or burned.

"It's okay," Paul whispers again into Daryl's skin, and kisses him again.

Despite himself, Daryl believes him, and lets go.

~*~

The Wraith are fucking terrifying.

See, the thing about having _immortal_ _space vampires_ who suck your life force through their palms, age you in seconds until you're a mummified husk of your former self, _and_ are very hard to kill, as your enemies and apex predators, is...

Well, exactly all of the above.

It's shitting-your-pants kind of terrifying, no matter how you put it.

Add the fact that the Ancients died out and/or escaped to a whole other _galaxy_ to be rid of them – Ancients, who were a race so advanced humanity is like a bumbling three-year-old to their nuclear-physicist level – well, it really puts things in perspective.

Therefore, when _something_ happens to Atlantis, something confusing enough that Daryl can't make heads or tails of no matter how many pictures Atlantis shoves at him, but also something clearly Wraith-related, Daryl rightfully _freaks the fuck out_ for a minute.

By the time he collects himself, Atlantis is in overdrive, there's chaos everywhere, he has no fucking idea where Paul is, and—

His brain is _lit up_.

It's a glaring neon spotlight in his head, and he's getting images thrown at him too fast to grasp.

Daryl _feels it_ when a missile manages to get past Atlantis's shields, a split-second loss of power on Atlantis' side, and searing blooms in his abdomen just as one of the buildings outside suffers a hit.

It takes a few seconds to sink in.

Daryl is physically connected to Atlantis.

Daryl is _physically **fucking** connected_ to—

No.

No, there's no time for freak-outs, not now.

"Dixon, I'm too far away from the Chair, _do something_," Colonel Sheppard hisses into his ear, Atlantis probably relaying what Sheppard said into his headset, since Daryl _doesn't have one_.

"Okay, I will, hold your fuckin' horses," Daryl says, and asks Atlantis for a sitrep.

He gets a 3D map, the wraith hive above them, and a collage of what other people are doing in the city in that very moment.

"A, connect me to Glenn," Daryl says, and gets Glenn in his ear as clear as if he had a headset on.

This will never stop being weird.

Daryl coordinates with Glenn, then in quick succession with McKay, Weir, and Sheppard and his team.

Plan in place, he focuses on showing Atlantis what targets to hit first, the parts he needs the shields to be as impenetrable as possible, the sections of the city to close off and the ones that absolutely have to stay open.

It's a lot to think of, keep in mind and not lose track of, all at once.

"Can you help me get to the Chair quicker?" Sheppard asks, breathing rapid as he runs.

Daryl asks Atlantis and it says yes.

"Get into the first lift you see, it'll get you where you need to go."

"Thanks," Sheppard says.

Daryl has no time to acknowledge it, already lost again.

He feels every hit on the city as momentary pain on various parts of his body: stomach, legs, arms, back.

The back is the worst, old scars flaring up, bringing bad memories with it.

Still, he doesn't stop concentrating, pulling extra power into the shields, shooting at the targets the sensors show him, ignoring everything but the battle.

He feels wetness on his lips and trickling down his neck, but he has no time or concentration to move.

His body is not his own, it's Atlantis itself.

He can sense when Sheppard gets to the chair in the control room, takes over the drones, and the pressure grinding his body into the ground eases a bit.

Everything aches: his wrists, his muscles, his _head_, the very marrow of his bones.

He thinks his body starts seizing but it's distant, vague. Unimportant.

Atlantis is under attack.

It must be protected.

It's doing everything it can to keep the humans inside of it safe.

The attack stops.

The defense was successful.

The body is lying prone now.

Someone moves its head, puts some sort of fabric beneath it. The view shifts, tilts and blurs.

The limitations of human vision are many, but it recognizes the human's bedmate.

The body has stopped seizing.

That is good.

Damage report: microscopic tears in muscles, skin, organs, and connective tissue. Three broken ribs. Bruised: 40% of body. Blood loss from mouth, nose and ears: half a liter.

Prognosis: if treated, full recovery within two months. Needs rest and medical attention.

The other human will make sure that happens.

It sends the body to sleep.

~*~

"Hey," Paul says.

"Hey."

He's sitting on the bed next to Daryl, cross-legged. It's the middle of the night, no one's in the infirmary.

Paul looks like he's afraid to take his eyes off Daryl.

"You scared me," he says plainly, honest as ever.

"Sorry," Daryl croaks.

Paul nods.

'Sorry' doesn't really help anything, does it?

"What happened?"

Daryl licks his dry lips, trying to pull his thoughts together. It's surprisingly difficult.

"I... I'm not sure," he says, then amends, "I think... I think Atlantis took over. Near the end there."

Daryl can feel Paul's eyes on him, sharp and worried. He tells himself he doesn't look back because moving his head would take too much effort, not because he'll have a panic attack if he thinks about what happened, and the pain, and how some alien _thing_ took over his body and there was _nothing he could do_, _oh god_.

Paul's hand covers his and Daryl clings, keeping it together by some miracle and sheer willpower.

"Can't remember much but... It don't know the limits. Our limits, how much a body can take. Just kept going through the agony, like it ain't a big deal."

The memory of that, at least, is vivid, and Daryl swallows against the nausea.

"Scared the shit outta me," he whispers, barely audible.

Paul waits a few beats, then climbs onto the bed next to Daryl, high up so he can wrap his arms around Daryl's head, pull his face into the darkness and safety of his chest. A soft kiss is pressed to his hair, and Daryl closes his burning eyes so he doesn't cry like a baby.

He uses the last of his strength to grasp at Paul's shoulder, tries to keep him there, tries to anchor himself in his body, in this moment.

He has no idea if it works.

His mind betrays him and he falls asleep again.

~*~

Atlantis is contrite the next time it reaches out.

It seems aware that it did something wrong, though not what, or how.

Daryl is still pissed, and scared, and at a loss how to deal with any of it.

Paul's suggestion is to just talk to Atlantis, try to explain what happened, why it should be more careful. To try to get it to honor protocols and commands from other people, too, and not just do what crosses Daryl's mind.

Daryl would rather poke a rattlesnake with a stick than try to have that sort of chat with an _alien city that can control his mind_, but he can't come up with a single alternative, so he does it.

He's not quite sure Atlantis gets it, but it tries.

Daryl tells himself he can't really ask more than that.

~*~

"Do you know what you're going to do?"

"No."

"Okay."

Okay.

Funny, how that word brings him comfort now.

Nothing is resolved.

The brass still hates that Daryl has this thing, _Atlantis_, in his head, but it's not like they can simply reassign him. It's pretty much clear by now that they'd all get thrown out of Atlantis in a blink if Daryl is made to leave against his will.

Which poses another question: _can_ he ever leave?

So far Atlantis was aware he was coming back when he went on missions outside the city, but what if he ever decides to go back to Earth permanently? Would it just let him go?

Would Daryl even _want_ to?

After all, what does he have to go back to? A brother who probably overdosed by now? Friends who never really were friends at all, more like vague acquaintances?

There's a lot to think about. A lot of choices to make.

Daryl sighs, tries to forget about it all and focus on the now.

For now, he doesn't have to decide anything.

For now, he can breathe in the salty air and enjoy the warm breeze.

For now, he's happy exactly where he is: high on one of Atlantis' balconies, stretched out on a blanket with his head resting on Paul's stomach, watching the twinkling stars of the Pegasus galaxy.

He can worry about everything else tomorrow.

Because now, in this very moment?

What he has is more than enough.

-END


End file.
